


Your Hand in Mine

by autumnalecho



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley is soft and he hates it, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-14 15:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnalecho/pseuds/autumnalecho
Summary: Before he thinks better of it, he leans in, presses the length of their arms together, lets his fingers touch the back of the angel’s hand lightly.--Exploring Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship through a journey of hands.





	Your Hand in Mine

**4004 B.C. — Garden of Eden**

“...I do hope I didn’t do the wrong thing,” the angel frets, twisting his hands about in a nervous tick.

A grin lights its way across the demon’s face — _what a delicious opportunity to taunt. _

“You’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing,” he drawls, tilting his head in mock-sympathy. Not that it mattered. The angel is too wholesome to notice the jab.

“Oh, thank you. It’s been bothering me,” Aziraphale croons, turning a radiantly sincere smile to the demon.

_ Well, no use then. _ Crawly allows the conversation to take a hard left, opting for his own form of sincerity instead.

“I’ve been worrying too. What if I did the right thing, with the whole eat-the-apple business? A demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing,” he pauses for a beat, letting the thought hang in the air between them. “Funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one,” he grins at the angel, aiming to lighten the mood.

The angel chuckles nervously in response for a moment, then catches on. 

“No! Not funny at all,” his face goes grave as he says it.

Then the sky opens up. A bright ark of white feathers lifts up over Crawly’s head. Around them, the rain falls steadily for the first time in all the world. The demon moves closer to the angel’s side. They stand there like that for a long time, watching the human couple make their way further into the wilderness. 

The demon sways lightly, lost in thought about good and evil and ineffable plans. Each little movement brings him, unconsciously, closer to the angel’s side until their shoulders are pressed warm and solid against one another, their fingers brushing delicately. When, at last, they bid farewell and carry on their own ways, Crawly swears he can still feel the warmth of angelic skin against the tips of his fingers for weeks after. 

**3004 B.C. — The Ark**

The angel was fidgeting again. He would never say it out loud, his doubts, but Crawly can see it in his face. It’s what makes the angel so interesting, really. 

“God’s promised this will be the last time. And when it’s done, the Almighty’s going to put a new thing called a rain... bow, as a promise to not drown everyone again,” he spreads his hands out in the air as he says rainbow. Then he glances to the demon at his side, eyes betraying his true thoughts. Crawly voices it for him.

“How kind,” he tsks. 

“You can’t judge the Almighty, Crawly. God’s plans are…”

Crawly cuts him off, “Are you going to say ‘ineffable’?” 

The angel pauses then he concedes. “Possibly.”

They lapse into a companionable silence, watching the animals go past. Thunder breaks open the sky, and raindrops begin to fall. Crawly’s mind reels back, for just a moment, to the edge of the Eastern Gate. His thoughts are interrupted by a small commotion near the Ark.

“Oy! Shem! That unicorn’s going to make a run for it if…,” he lifts his arm to point at the creature, which has already broken free before the words leave his mouth. He tries not to notice that his shoulder bumps against Aziraphale’s in the process. “... oh, too late. It’s too late! Well, you’ve still got one of them,” he drops his arm as he says this. 

Their hands brush against each other, just like they did at the Garden. This time, though, the angel takes a small step away. Crawly sees him flex his hand out of the corner of his eye, a strange expression on his face. 

In the months that follow, he is unable to shake the expression from his mind’s eye. 

**33 A.D. – Golgotha**

“What was it he said that got everyone so upset again?” the demon asks. 

“Be kind to each other,” the angel responds.

“Yeah. That’ll do it.”

They watch in heavy silence. Crowley can _feel_ the angel’s distress. Before he thinks better of it, he leans in, presses the length of their arms together, lets his fingers touch the back of the angel’s hand lightly. This time, the angel doesn’t pull away. Instead, he sinks into it, lets the demon hold his weight there.

They stay like that for hours, until it becomes too hard to keep looking. They go their own ways once more, and Crowley finds himself hoping he sees the angel again soon. 

**41 A.D. — Ancient Rome**

It turns out to be another eight years before their paths cross again. He’s in a tavern drinking a poor excuse for wine when the angel approaches him. They don’t precisely exchange pleasantries, at first (Crowley’s not feeling up for conversation). The angel forges ahead anyway, and soon enough, Crowley offers him a cup of wine, and they start to talk about why they’re in Rome. 

“I thought I’d go to Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does remarkable things to oysters,” Aziraphale chimes. 

“I’ve never eaten an oyster,” Crowley says, off-handedly. 

Aziraphale brightens even further, “Oh, let me tempt you to…” then he catches himself. “Oops. Th- That’s your job, isn’t it?” 

Crowley is startled by the joke and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth despite his best effort. That’s how he finds himself tucked into a corner with the angel, trying oysters for the first time. Their hands knock against one another’s at one point when they both reach for an oyster at the same time. Aziraphale casts an apologetic smile at him and lets Crowley grab one first. 

When Crowley brings the oyster to his lips, he closes his eyes like he’s savoring it. Truthfully, he’s savoring something else altogether. 

**1601 — The Globe Theatre**

He keeps his hands held tight behind his back for almost the entire time they’re at the theatre. He prods Aziraphale along gently, gets him to agree to The Arrangement once again. It’s not hard, never is — the angel is more devilish than he realizes. 

When the angel cheers Hamlet on, Crowley feels a warmth in his chest that goes against his very nature. He tries very hard not to think about it. 

_ It’d take a miracle to get people to come and see Hamlet._

How can he say no when those wide, blue eyes are staring at him so hopefully? 

“Yeah. All right. I’ll do that one. My treat,” he sighs.

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale says, his voice overflowing with a fondness Crowley didn’t know the angel had for him. 

He hurries himself away after that, afraid that if he does not, he’ll let go of the hands crossed behind his back and reach for the angel. 

**1793 — France**

“So what’s for lunch?” Crowley asks as the executioner is dragged from the cell. 

“What would you say to some crepes?” Aziraphale replies, already giddy at the idea. 

They have a long lunch. Aziraphale gets his crepes, and Crowley leisurely sips on wine through the whole meal, occasionally taking bites of food at the angel’s insistence. When they finish, the angel seems reluctant to part. 

“Would you like to accompany me for a little longer?” he asks, and Crowley doesn’t miss his nervous shuffle.

“Yeah, why not?”

The angel positively beams at him, and Crowley feels that infuriating warmth in his chest again. He follows at the angel’s side, strolling to a nearby bakery. Aziraphale’s hand brushes against his own repeatedly as they walk and Crowley works very hard on not thinking about it, letting the angel prattle on about what he’s been up to recently. 

When the angel gets his bread, he tears a piece off and pops it in his mouth, humming happily at the taste.

“Here,” he says, tearing off another piece and bringing it up to Crowley’s lips.

In a daze, he opens his mouth, lets the angel gently push it in, fingers brushing against his lips. They stare at each other as Crowley chews, both equally embarrassed by the intimacy of it all. 

Crowley makes an excuse to leave soon after that. They don’t see each other again for a good fifty years.

**1862 — St. James Park**

He’s already bracing for the fight when he hands the slip of paper to the angel. Their fingers brush as Aziraphale takes it and Crowley feels it like a burn, focuses on keeping his face impassive. 

He’s rambling nervously about ducks and ears when Aziraphale looks up at him, shocked, and gasps out, “Out of the question.”

“Why not?”

“It would destroy you. I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley.”

“That’s not what I want it for,” he snaps, exasperated with the angel’s worst assumption. “Just… insurance.”

“I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I’d get into if they knew I’d been fraternising?” The angel says it without a thought, but Crowleys feels like a stab in the gut. “It’s completely out of the question.” There’s a note of finality to the words when Aziraphale says it this time. 

Which is fine, because Crowley’s mind is stuck on something else now.

“_Fraternising? _” 

“Whatever you wish to call it. I do not think there is any point in discussing it further.”

“I have lots of other people to fraternise with, angel,” Crowley sneers. He’s never spoken to Aziraphale with such venom before. 

“Of course you do,” Aziraphale bites back. 

“I don’t need you,” Crowley says, and he’s perfectly aware of how petulant he sounds right then. 

“The feeling is mutual, obviously,” Aziraphale is nearly shouting. He throws the scrap of paper into the water and storms away, leaving a sinking feeling in Crowley’s chest. For once, he wishes for that dreadful warmth to be there instead. 

“Obviously,” he hisses mockingly, face turning into a scowl. The paper floats along the water's surface before suddenly bursting into flames. He watches it burn away into nothing and seethes.

Then he goes home and naps for nearly a century. 

**1941 — London**

Even the air tastes of it, like he’s bitten his tongue and let the blood sit thick and warm in his mouth. Aziraphale is brushing the ash from his coat and trying to thank Crowley for diverting what would have been a very inconvenient discorporation when he remembers the books. 

“Oh, they’ll have all been blown to…” he trails off when Crowley reaches down into the rubble and pulls the leather bag loose from the dead Nazi’s hand. He passes it to the angel; their fingers overlap on the handle. Crowley feels that warmth again for the first time in roughly eighty years and _basks_ in it.

“Little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?” he quips, letting the bag go and making his way to the Bentley.

He pretends not to notice the way Aziraphale stares after him, eyes shining with awe and adoration. It is the most wonderful and the most terrible look the angel has ever given him.

**1967 — Soho, London**

The thermos is tartan. Of course it is. It belongs to Aziraphale, after all. Crowley looks back to the angel. 

“Should I say thank you?” The words scrape against the back of his throat, leaves it feeling raw. He tries to swallow it away. 

“Better not,” Aziraphale says with a minute shake of his head. He looks devastated, Crowley realizes, and he searches for something, anything he can do to turn this whole interaction around. 

“Can I drop you anywhere?” he asks. 

Aziraphale refuses, makes promises that someday they’ll have a picnic, maybe dine at the Ritz.

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go,” Crowley is almost pleading, and it twists something terrible in his gut. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” the angel’s voice is pained, his eyes are pleading with the demon to understand — to understand _what_? 

Aziraphale hurries from the car; he doesn’t even glance back. Crowley watches him go, and he feels an ache open up inside him, an empty, black pit that sucks out all the sound and light around him. He holds the thermos up eye-level. He thinks of the way Aziraphale’s fingers felt against his as he handed the thermos over. There is no warmth in that thought. Instead, the pit remains inside him like a weeping wound, and a shiver pulls up his spine. 

**2007 — A.Z. Fell and Co.**

Crowley smacks his lips a few times, adjusts to the feeling of no longer being pleasantly inebriated. Aziraphale is sitting in the chair across from him, doing much the same. It’s not ideal, being sober when he’s just found out the end of the world is hot on their heels, but Aziraphale is slipping closer and closer to seeing his side of things, and really that’s the whole point. 

“Heaven couldn’t actually object to me thwarting you…” Aziraphale muses.

“It’d be a real feather in your wing,” Crowley teases lightly. 

Aziraphale gives him an exasperated look but reaches his hand across the table anyway. They shake on it, and Crowley feels electricity shoot up his arm. When they let go, he balls his hand into a fist, tucks into his side and tries to pretend he isn’t cradling the warmth of that touch close to his nonexistent heart.

**2015 — Warlock’s Residence**

They meet like this every evening now. Crowley has his own suite in the house which is perfect for these little rendezvous. The fireplace is spitting and crackling in the main room while Crowley works the cork out of a bottle of wine. It’s a red, one of Aziraphale’s favorites. 

He’s pouring it into the wine glasses he’s summoned from his kitchenette when Aziraphale slips into the room. They settle into the sofa with their drinks, a respectable distance between them. Crowley can feel every inch of it like a pulse in his neck. 

They swap stories about their day, chatting idly about nothing in particular. The guise is that they are here to talk about their progress with Warlock, but it’s been three years since they’ve taken up posts at the residence and they’ve long since given up on the pretense. 

Crowley says something that makes Aziraphale laugh, bright and loud — a rarity for the angel. The warmth settles into Crowley’s chest at the sound, like it always does when the angel is near. 

He reaches out for the angel’s empty wine glass, lets his hand wrap over Aziraphale’s as he takes it to refill_._ Aziraphale smiles up at him as he does, and Crowley’s mouth quirks up in response. For a moment, he can forget that they have only been forced this close together because of Armageddon. 

**2018 —** **Tadfield**

_ “You can stay at my place, if you like.” _

They get on the bus together and, for the first time, they sit side by side on the same seat. Their knees are pressed against each other’s, and Crowley suddenly decides that the stretch of black nothingness out the bus window is very fascinating. Aziraphale shifts next to him, that nervous wiggle always giving him away. Crowley is wondering if it was a mistake to invite him back to his flat when he feels a warm hand settle over the top of his own.

He glances down, looks at their hands, laying atop one another on the bus seat. Then he carefully, deliberately turns his palm upward. Their fingers slot together, tangle gently. 

Aziraphale looks at him. He almost seems surprised. Crowley flexes his hand, grips on tight, the corner of his mouth pulling upward into a shy smile. The angel smiles back, brighter than anything Crowley has ever seen, and turns back to look ahead. 

**2022 — South Downs**

Crowley is in the garden, berating his tomato plants. They’re starting to slack off, which will not be tolerated. He is laying in rather viciously to a trembling cluster of tomatoes when he hears the crunch of Aziraphale’s shoes along the gravel path behind him. 

“We’re not done here,” he hisses before he straightens and turns to greet his angel. 

“I hope you’re not tormenting them too much, my dear,” Aziraphale chides, but there’s no heat to it, and his eyes betray his amusement. 

“Nothing more than they deserve,” Crowley assures, pulling off his gardening gloves and chucking them to the ground. He joins Aziraphale on the gravel path, takes the angel’s hand in his, easy as anything. 

The angel leads him back inside and sits him down at the kitchen table. Crowley watches him fuss about the kitchen, filling wine glasses and gathering together a lovely cheese spread. 

He settles it all onto the table neatly, leaning over to brush a soft kiss against Crowley’s forehead before tucking himself into the chair next to the demon. Crowley doesn’t bother trying to hide the smile that breaks across his face, hasn’t bothered trying to hide it for a long time, not with Aziraphale. He grabs the angel’s hand in his, gives it a gentle squeeze, then let's go to pick up his glass. 

“Tell me about your day,” he murmurs, tipping the glass at Aziraphale in encouragement.

He does, and Crowley feels warm all over, sitting here in their kitchen, in their cottage by the sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my fiance for beta reading this for me. xx


End file.
